


the merry-go-round is beginning to slow now

by ringerxo



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Bagels, Bickering, Comfort, Comfort Food, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Knishes, M/M, Spideypool - Freeform, Well - Freeform, kind of established, ~brooklyn vibes~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringerxo/pseuds/ringerxo
Summary: Imposter syndrome isn't fun. Peter looks for comfort, simple, calming. Is that too much to ask?Rated T for mentions of dicks. Set in the distant and amorphous future, where Peter is of legal age and is part of the Avengers.





	the merry-go-round is beginning to slow now

**Author's Note:**

> A wave of inspiration hit me. This is very unedited, forgive any mistakes. The title is from Barbara Streisand's I Stayed Too Long At The Fair, which was looping as I wrote this.
> 
> I can't believe my first spideypool fic isn't smut. Ah well. Those will happen soon enough.

Walking home after a long day at work was never fun. It was that little itty bitty bit of physical exertion that no one needed, no matter how they spent their day - at a desk in an office, or swinging between buildings by specially constructed polymer webbing, saving people and the city.

The rustle of the bag was encouraging. Peter had urged Happy to let him off by his favorite bagel joint, and he had various forms of blessed carbs in which he planned to drown his sorrows.

He barely even remembered reaching his home, letting himself in, trudging up the stairs. Only when he shut his bedroom door behind him did he become aware that he was home, he was holding a greasy bag of fantastic food in his hand, he felt like the biggest imposter in the world, and Deadpool was lounging on his bed, reading a blood-spattered copy of Playboy.

“Goddamnit, Deadpool,” Peter sighed, dropping his backpack to the floor. He briefly considered clearing his cluttered desk and eating there, but one glance at the piles of paper, spools of thread and bits of circuitry that covered the surface dissuaded him of that notion.

Instead, he sunk down to the floor where he stood, gracefully folding his legs under himself. “I have had one hell of a day,” he said morosely, rolling the sides of the paper bag down to better access the treasures within, “and I have no energy to throw you out the window again. Forgive me if I ignore you.”

The silence after his statement was a bit too long for comfort, so Peter wearily raised his head and saw Deadpool looking at him - well, he had raised his head from the magazine, for all Peter knew he could be sleeping behind the mask.

“Mmmkay, Baby Boy,” Deadpool said, licking a gloved finger and turning a page in his magazine. “I’ll forgive you for completely wasting what in any other situation would be antagonizing enough for some light violence at the beginning of this story. Besides,” he added loftily, “this interview is fascinating enough to distract me from-- are those potato knishes?”

Peter, who had began taking containers out of the bag, nodded. “I have some cheese ones for dessert.” He took out the cans of cream soda from the bottom of the bag, crumpled it up, and threw it into the trash. Then, he furrowed his brow, and looked up. “Interview? In Playboy?”

Deadpool nodded. “I have a dream, Baby Boy, that people would believe me when I said that I read Playboy for the articles. Or this interview with Martin Luther King Jr., whose willingness to sit down for an interview with a guy writing for a skin mag was admirable.”

“Well, let’s be realistic here,” Peter said, rising gracefully and plodding over to his closet, changing into his pajama hoodie and pants, making well sure that the open closet door disguised him. “Were there any other publications rushing to interview him?”

“At the time, yeah,” Deadpool said. “The interview’s from 1965. Alex Haley even said that they had to hound King to get him to give them the time of day.”

Pulling the hoodie over his head, Peter paused. “Huh. Interesting.” He closed his closet door and caught the tail end of Deadpool peeking over the top of the rapidly-turning-rust-red magazine to ogle him, right before he raised the magazine back over his eyes and whistled innocently.

“I have a question,” Peter said, going back to the floor where his feast awaited. “Why is that magazine covered in blood?”

“Well, the librarian wasn't letting it go that easily. It is a collectors’ item, after all.”

“You killed a librarian?” Peter exclaimed.

“He was a sexual predator and he embezzled funds from the public school system!” Deadpool retorted.

“You killed someone, AND ruined a collectors’ item.” Peter glared at Deadpool. “And you thought I would be okay with this, why?”

“I didn't,” Deadpool said cheerfully. Peter sighed deeply and took a bite of one of the knishes.

“You're not making this any easier, Wade,” he said around a mouthful of lightly fried dough and savory mashed potatoes.

“Are you kidding me? I'm the easiest guy on the block. I'd fuck Larry from the coffee shop around the corner, who I don't think has showered in the span of the last calendar year. And we're in December.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Tried it,” he said. “Man buns are apparently code for ‘I care about my pleasure and mine alone’. Besides, he snores.”

“So do you,” Deadpool pointed out, with a flick of his magazine.

“Hey!” Peter said indignantly. “You said it was cute!”

“It is. But to be honest, I said it to get into your pants--”

“Wade--”

“--and it worked!”

“You're making me regret my choices,” Peter muttered, and took another bite of the knish.

“I get that,” Deadpool said sagely, putting the magazine down and sliding down to join Peter on the floor. “Man buns are perpetually regrettable.”

Peter shot him A Look, and unwrapped his lox bagel. “Wade, remember what I said last time?”

“‘Fuck, right there, harder’?”

“After that.”

“You were pretty speechless after that.”

Peter snorted, but his cheeks were slightly flushed. “I told you that if you kill again, I'm not going to touch your dick for a week.”

Deadpool, whose mask was raised to his nose as he eagerly stuffed a knish into his face, paused. “You mean, that wasn't just a nightmare?”

Peter shook his head.

Deadpool frowned, the corners of his mouth visible. “Peteyyyyyyyy,” he whined. “I'll be good, I swear.”

Peter polished off the bagel and shook his head. “I won't kick you out,” he said carefully, “but no dick touching.”

Deadpool looked confused. “Then… why stay?”

*crack*, went the top of the cream soda can. Peter took a long swig, then put the can down, leveled an even gaze at Deadpool, and said, “Get out.”

“Whoa whoa, Parker,” Deadpool said, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “What--”

“If you don't want to spend time with me without getting your rocks off, get out,” Peter elaborated coldly. “I've had A Bit Of A Day, fighting and training with people who I don't understand what I'm doing amongst them, and the last thing I need now is to feel like another kind of plaything.”

“Peter--”

“Take the knishes with you,” Peter snapped. He rose to his feet and stalked over to the window, intending to open it, but a strong grip on his shoulder had him spinning around.

“You never wanted to not fuck before today, Baby Boy,” Deadpool - Wade - said, mask completely off, eyes intent on Peter's glittering ones. “It was an honest question. I want to know what you want us to do.”

Peter held Wade's gaze for a moment, then visibly deflated. “I just want to be with you,” he said in a small voice. “I want to get into bed with you and cuddle and fall asleep, and belong there.”

Wade wrapped his arms around Peter's lithe form. “Whatever you want, Baby Boy,” he said, soothing hands running over Peter's back, melting away the stress.

Peter sighed and pressed himself into Wade's chest. They stood there for a few minutes, quietly drinking in the contact.

Soon enough, Peter pulled back. “I'm going to put the leftovers in the fridge and brush my teeth,” he said. “You know where your pajamas are.”

Peter made short work of storing the cream cheese and leftover knishes. By the time he got back upstairs, Wade had managed to zip in and out of the shower; Peter walked in on him pulling his pajama bottoms up over his hips. But there was a comfortable silence, no awkward, stilted come-ons.

They got into bed. Wade was the big spoon, of course; under the blankets, he slung his arm casually over Peter's waist and pulled him in. Peter hummed pleasantly.

“I only have 3 things to say before the author falls asleep,” Wade said lowly. “First - if anyone in that clusterfuck club makes you feel like you don't belong with their spandex life-saving asses, I will personally make sure that someone shits in their car engine every 10th of every month for the rest of their highly unnatural lives.”

Peter giggled, and felt Wade's smile on the back of his neck.

“Second,” Wade continued, “you broke your own rule.” He wiggled, and Peter felt something against the cleft of his ass. “My dick **is** touching you.”

“WADE.”

“Thirdly,” Wade continued blithely on, ignoring Peter's sputtering, “this is new. And nice. I like it.”

Peter stopped sputtering, thought for a few moments, then snuggled back into Wade's arms. “It is nice,” he agreed sleepily.

As he fell asleep, he could hear Wade humming to himself. It sounded like Barbara Streisand.

**Author's Note:**

> There really was an interview with Martin Luther King Jr in 1965 Playboy. It was the longest one King every gave. Look it up, it's fascinating.
> 
> Also, do yourself a favor and have a potato knish. A touch of yellow mustard - none of that fancy French stuff, only yellow will do - and you'll be on the highway to heaven.


End file.
